Enigmatic
by Wyzeguy
Summary: Ororo and Logan Logan grow closer as Logan's past before Weapon X comes to light, and they face a mysterious new group.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Enigmatic  
Writer: David Ellis  
Summary: Storm and Logan grow closer, while figures from Logan's mysterious past resurface.  
Rating: PG-13/R  
Main Characters: Storm (POV), Wolverine, Cyclops, The Hand, Original Characters  
Universe: Movieverse  
Archive & Feedback: I crave feedback, and I don't mind if somebody wants to archive this. I can be reached at Wyzeguy79@yahoo.com.  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are owned by Marvel Comics, and are based on Bryan Singer's movie version. The rest are my creations. I'm not making money off of this. I'm just trying to establish myself as a moviefic writer.  
Warnings: Lots of casual cussing, and plenty of violence, wait and see. Oh, and some adult situations here and there (especially later). I'm not gonna hold back much, kids.  
Notes: This fic takes place almost a year after the events in "X-Men: The Movie". Wolverine is back at the mansion and is a full member of the X-Men, Rogue and some of the other students are about to graduate, and the X-Men's ranks have swelled slightly. Hank "Beast" McCoy is a character from the comics, and I'm writing him as if he were an X-Man from the beginning, but on leave during Logan's original visit to the mansion. Got all that? Good.  
  
  
ENIGMATIC  
Wyzeguy  
  
Where I walk, the winds walk with me.  
  
I am Ororo Monroe, and I am currently a long way from my homeland. In  
my youth, I shaped the forces of nature to my whim in order to irrigate  
and aid my starving Kenyan village. Currently, I am a teacher at Xavier's  
School for Gifted Youngsters in America, where I use my inborn gifts  
to help my students (and occasionally the rest of the world) in an entirely  
different fashion.  
  
An unusual progression to take, I will admit, but I find that the life  
of a mutant - a genetically-gifted individual - is frequently unusual.  
Which is just how I like it. Like the weather, I favor unpredictability.  
And I doubt I could easily fit in with my dark skin and natural white  
hair, in the first place.  
  
I first laid eyes on these enormous mansion halls in my fifteenth year,  
as a student who had lost her village to a freak storm which her temper  
had accidentally created. Over time, I went from an awkward girl who  
knew almost no English, to a confident adult who teaches world history  
to young mutants who are very much like I once was.  
  
At the moment, however, classes are the furthest thing from my mind,  
as I sit on a blanket by the duck pond, and feed scraps of bread to the  
local waterfowl. Chatting with me is the school's physical education  
teacher, a rather gruff man named Logan.  
  
I still have no idea whether that's his first or last name. Not even  
he knows, as most of his past is a mystery to him. All he knows for  
sure is that a cruel experiment by the Canadian government surgically  
bonded an alloy called adamantium to his entire skeleton. Only his mutant  
ability to rapidly heal his body's damaged tissue has allowed him to  
survive this. All this has left him a sarcastic, angry man, which is  
a shame because at his core, Logan has a heart of gold.   
  
Thankfully, his time spent at this school has been a calming influence  
on him, and our talks by the pond have become a regular activity. We  
often converse on the state of the world, politics, school gossip, and  
the stresses that accompany being a teacher.  
  
However, our current conversation involves an altogether different kind  
of frustration: "You growled at Bobby today," I mention to Logan as  
I watch a duck snap up the scrap of wheat bread.  
  
Logan glances at me and rolls his eyes. "Figures you'd hear about that.  
Not that it's any big deal."  
  
"Well," I reply gently, "it did upset him quite a bit. And Marie as  
well."  
  
He stiffens at the mention of Marie, a runaway girl he had befriended  
shortly before we met. Marie is currently a student at this school,  
as is Bobby Drake, who is...well, not quite her boyfriend. "They were makin'  
out on the rec room couch while I was watching a movie."   
  
I raise an eyebrow at this. "I heard they were holding hands. It is  
quite difficult for her to kiss anyone, considering her gift." With  
a touch, Marie can absorb the personality, memory, and physical strength  
of anyone she touches with bare skin.  
  
I hear an annoyed rumble in Logan's throat. "Well, they were flirting,  
anyway."  
  
"And that upsets you."  
  
"Well yeah! How'm I supposed to watch a goddamn movie with them talkin'  
in my ear?"  
  
I shake my head, noting the rise on Logan's temper. "That's not what  
I meant. The idea of Marie having a boyfriend upsets you."  
  
"It's her life, I'm not her damn father, so why should it upset me?"  
  
"Logan..."  
  
He throws up his hands and sighs. "Okay, so it bugs the shit outta me.  
And for no good reason, either, other than I don't want to see her get  
hurt."  
  
I place my hand gently on his. "But this is Bobby. He's the least likely  
of anyone in this school to hurt her."  
  
"I know, but...."  
  
"But what?"  
  
"She's too young to have a boyfriend."  
  
"She's almost eighteen."  
  
Logan looks at the scrap of bread in his hand. He tosses it at a goose  
and stands up, pacing back and forth. "So you're saying I should just  
keep my nose out of Marie's dating life."  
  
I smile. "I am saying that it's admirable that you care so much for  
her. You are more of a father to her than the man who gave her life.  
But part of that is understanding that she will not need your protection  
forever."  
  
Logan clenches his jaw, and I see a helpless look in his eyes that only  
a precious few people are privy to. "Dammit, 'Ro, I didn't want to be  
anyone's father. I didn't ask for it. Hell, when I found her stowed  
away in my camper, I wanted her to get lost. Having her tag along would  
just complicate things."  
  
"But," I venture with a shrug, "you let her tag along anyway. Logan,  
sometimes, we choose our own family in life. And...if I may make an  
observation..."  
  
"Shit, here we go with the observations again."  
  
I chuckle. I do tend to say that a lot. "If I may make an observation,  
you have no memory of your life before the adamantium. And your healing  
ability has gifted you with a long life. Is it not possible, then,"  
and I pause for effect, "that you may have a family somewhere that you're  
not aware of?"  
  
He stops pacing and closes his eyes tightly, pondering this. It appears  
I have touched a nerve, or presented him with a concept he isn't ready  
to deal with. Finally, he answers, "I just don't know."   
  
He clenches his fists, and six knifelike claws -- the other souvenirs  
of the adamantium grafting -- emerge from between the knuckles of each  
hand. He opens his eyes and sees the claws. He immediately sheathes  
them, out of remorse.  
  
I stand up, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Logan..."  
  
He shrugs off my hand. "I've got things to do. I'll see you around."  
He strides off toward the mansion, his posture that of someone who has  
too many questions about himself, and next to no answers.  
  
I wish I could help him find those answers.  
  
_X_  
  
I sit in a somewhat uncomfortable chair at a large round table while  
my teammates and I are briefed on a situation by Professor Charles Xavier,  
who has founded both the school and X-Men. "My sources have confirmed,"  
he begins, "that a group of mercenaries has recently taken up the practice  
of assassinating mutant citizens."  
  
We look around at each other for a moment, then back at the professor,  
waiting for him to continue.   
  
This certainly gets our attention. "Any idea who they might be working  
for?" asks Scott. His expression is somewhat curious, though the red-tinted lenses of his sunglasses hide his eyes. The lenses, made of ruby quartz, are  
the only barrier between his energy-emitting eyes and the rest of the  
world. "Or who they are, for that matter?"  
  
Xavier shakes his head slightly. "Their identities are a mystery. However,  
their victims are not. Here's the latest one, found dead in a parking  
lot at three in the morning." The professor presses a button on the  
table's console, and a large viewscreen in front of us displays a photo  
and dossier of the victim. The photo shows a teenage girl who bears  
a striking resemblance to a cat, complete with tan fur, whiskers, and  
narrow slits for pupils. "Her name is Maria Calasantos, Los Angelos  
gang member. Her death might have been ruled as a hit by a rival gang,  
had it not been for the garage's surveillance footage."  
  
He presses another button, and the screen changes to a grainy clip from  
a video camera. I watch the footage in horror as Maria staggers into  
camera range with a hand over her bleeding shoulder. She is struck three  
more times with bullets, then falls to the pavement. Two uniformed mercenaries  
warily approach her to check if she's still alive, and Maria answers  
by springing to her feet, and slashing at them with her claws.  
  
I have to look away as they unload their weapons into her body. However,  
my gaze alights on Logan, who studies the footage with a rare fascination.  
It's almost as if the recognizes something. "Pause the tape," he tells  
Xavier.  
  
The professor raises an eyebrow at him, then complies. "What is it,  
Logan?"  
  
"Son of a bitch...it's them."   
  
"You know them?" Scott asks.  
  
Logan looks at Scott for a moment, then returns his gaze to the screen,  
as if trying to uncover a memory. "I...yeah. They're my old merc team.  
The Talons."  
  
We stare at him in silence. He stares back. "What? Surprised to find  
out I'm a former mercenary? Hell, so am I." We knew he served in the  
military to some degree - he used to wear dogtags with the word 'Wolverine' engraved on them- but this is a new development.  
  
"It doesn't surprise me at all," Scott mentions, and his remark is answered  
by a glare from Logan. The two have been rivals from the moment they  
first met.  
  
"Scott, please," soothes Scott's fiancee, Jean Grey. She serves as the  
schools doctor, and until recently, an X-Men member, until she left active  
membership to concentrate on medicine. To Logan, she asks, "does that  
mean you used to hunt mutants? I mean, before the--"  
  
"I don't know," Logan mutters. "At least, I don't think so. This doesn't  
sound like something they'd do, but I'd know their M.O. anywhere. I  
helped devise the tactics myself. That, and I recognize a few of them."  
He walks to the screen, and points out two of the mercenaries. "That  
one's Hauer, the leader. And there's Smartass Wilson." He looks at  
us, and answers our glances. "What? That's what we called him."  
  
"How can you recognize them when they have masks over their faces?" I  
ask him.  
  
"Body language, 'Ro. I served with these guys for years. They were  
about like family."  
  
The ready room door hisses open, and we turn to find Marie walking with Bobby  
Drake, who looks nervously at Logan. The two are on the verge of becoming X-Men, but are still in training.  
  
Our eyes are on the both of them, and predictably, Scott is the first  
to point out: "You're late."  
  
Bobby holds up his hands pleadingly, adopting the "I-can-explain" face we all swear he invented. Bobby was one of my first students, and is  
still far and away the most passionate about becoming an X-Man. Xavier  
wanted him to get an education (or at least be of legal driving age)  
before joining the team. "Uh, sorry about that. We stopped by the vending machine on the way here. Want some peanuts?" He holds up a small bag of Planters. Marie nudges him with her elbow.  
  
"Just have a seat," Scott tells them, "and remember that if you're going  
to be X-Men, you'll have to be on time for little things like team meetings  
and missions."   
  
Marie and Bobby wait patiently for Scott to finish his reprimand in the  
typical adolescent fashion (I can almost see the mental rolling of eyes),  
then Marie asks, "what did we miss?" I notice Jean tilt her head a bit,  
and almost immediately the two of them seem to understand. Jean's mental  
powers have grown exponentially in the years she has been here, and she  
seems to have little trouble telepathically bringing Marie and Bobby  
up to date on the subject.  
  
Marie gives Logan a quizzical gaze. "You used to be in a commando team?"  
  
"Yeah, somethin' like that," Logan replies, shooting Bobby an unkind  
look out of habit. I doubt he's aware he's doing it.  
  
Marie looks down and clutches her necklace, wrapping her fingers around  
the military dogtags Logan had given her the previous year before he  
left for Canada. Upon his return, he didn't have the heart to take them  
back. "So...is that where you got these?"  
  
Logan's gaze also locks on the metal tags, and especially the word, 'Wolverine'.  
"Maybe. I dunno. But I think they're made of the same kind of metal my bones  
and claws are coated with. They're just as hard to damage."  
  
Hank McCoy, our beloved scientist, hops out of his seat and moves closer to Logan to get a better look at the tags. "They are? Why didn't you tell me, Logan? I could have studied them, and figured out the alloy's properties more efficiently than by studying your claws."  
  
"You didn't ask," Logan replies somewhat curtly. Logan rarely divulges  
any information about his adamantium unless absolutely necessary. "Besides,  
I'd like the tags to stay in one piece, which they won't be if you play  
mad scientist on 'em."  
  
Hank frowns, as he usually does when his scientific inspiration is shot  
down, and he heads back to his chair in defeat. For a three-hundred  
pound man who bears more than a passing resemblance to a blue gorilla,  
Hank can be quite comical-looking when he pouts.  
  
"Returning to the matter at hand," Xavier announces with an idle lift  
of a finger, "it is imperative that we learn what the so-called Talons' primary objective is, since there is no doubt a specific reason they are targeting mutants. Your intimate knowledge of them, Logan, will be invaluable."  
  
Logan looks rather skeptical. "Charles, it's a miracle I even recognized as much as I did about them. All the things I can remember about my life before I was operated on, wouldn't even fill a piss cup. I don't know how much more of a help I can be."  
  
The professor reclines slightly in his wheelchair, and brings up a very logical point: "You would recognize their scents, wouldn't you?"  
  
Logan pauses, and considers this. "Yeah...I guess." Xavier has a point. When we first met Logan, he had no recollection of his past, but since then, we have helped him recall small details. Some he has remembered thanks to telepathic probes, but a large portion of his recovered memories have involved his remarkable sense of smell. According to Xavier, sensory sensations are often the most potent memory triggers. "So, what you're saying is, you want me to play bloodhound at the crime scene, and see if I recognize their scents?"  
  
Xavier nods. "It could prove an enlightening experience, don't you think?"  
  
_X_  
  
Whenever Xavier predicts that a mission will be 'an enlightening experience', we experience an acute sense of dread. 'Enlightening' means out of the ordinary, difficult, and that we'll invariably uncover information we will wish we hadn't.  
  
Our suspicions have not been proven wrong yet.   
  
Scott, Jean, Logan, and myself have arrived in Los Angeles, posing as New York police officers complete with disguises and doctored credentials. We explain to the authorities at the crime scene that we have reason to believe the suspects were from New York, and that we have vested interest in this case.   
  
As one might expect, the LAPD is not exactly thrilled to work with NYPD, and they let us know about it at every opportunity. Still, they share the information they have uncovered with us, but it does not turn out to be much, as they have little interest in pursuing as case where the victim is both a gang member, and noticeably mutant.  
  
Nonetheless, Logan is given the opportunity to put his nose to work at the crime scene, but he garners strange looks from the surrounding officers, who wonder why he's so preoccupied in sniffing the air.  
  
One rather cynical detective jokes that Logan is the NYPD's idea of a canine officer, and I fight the urge to deck the man.   
  
Instead, I simply look annoyed in my itchy black wig, and continue to pretend that I know what I'm doing while Logan silences him with a glare. Scott talks to another detective, and Jean has her work cut out for her, telepathically influencing the officers' minds, so that they do not get suspicious of us.  
  
Finally, we head back to our car, and Jean remarks that for someone who is no longer a field member, she ends up spending a lot of time in the field.  
  
Scott removes the fake moustache he was wearing as he starts the car. "What can we say; your telepathy comes in handy at times. Besides, at least we're not asking you to suit up and duke it out with people, which I recall you don't exactly enjoy." He drops the subject by asking Logan, "any luck catching the scents?"  
  
"It's the Talons, all right," Logan replies as he sits in the back seat, running his fingers for the thousandth time through his stiff, gel-tamed hair. "Turns out I do know their scents anywhere."  
  
"Did you find out anything else?" I ask hopefully as I remove my infernal wig.  
  
Logan thought for a moment. "Well, there was one weird smell that got my attention. A chemical smell that clings." He pauses once again, trying to decide how to describe the scent while Scott fights traffic. "Y'know how when a skunk sprays somethin', it smells are real strong, and it just clings for a long time and you can't get it out easily?"  
  
Scott grins and casts a meaningful look to me, then to Logan. "All too well. One time, Ororo met a skunk in the woods behind the mansion, and she was almost traumatized by the experience."   
  
I glare murderously at Scott. 'Thank you for bringing that up yet again, to yet another person."  
  
Logan raises his hands defensively. "Hey, I already know about it, 'Ro. Your first meeting with a skunk is legendary at the school."  
  
I sink even lower into my seat, and try not to sound too indignant when I ask, "What exactly does a skunk's stench have to do with what you found at the crime scene, Logan?"  
  
"I'm just sayin', the smell clinged to the Talons like that. It was faint, but it was a strong kind of faint."  
  
Jean chuckles. "Houston, we have an oxymoron."  
  
"What I mean is, it was a strong smell they had on 'em at the scene, but they got it from someplace else they'd been."  
  
"Can you describe the smell?" Scott asks, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, and glaring unhappily at the car in front of him. "You said it was unusual."  
  
"Yeah, I remember smellin' it somewhere before, but I can't figure out where. But I do know it's trouble."  
  
"And you think that odor is a lead toward finding the Talons?" Jean asks.  
  
"It's some kinda lead," Logan agrees. "If we're gonna be detectives, we're gonna need leads."  
  
"It's also a scent," Scott mentions, honking the horn. "You need that in order to be a bloodhound, too."  
  
"Up yours, Summers."  
  
_X_  
  
It's late at night by the time we return to the mansion, with a few more items than when we left. We were unable to uncover any more information during our stay in Los Angeles, so I convinced Scott to allow me to do some shopping before we had to endure another long flight back to New York. He agreed, on the condition that I drag Logan along with me. Logan did not like the idea as much as Scott and I did, especially when he was coerced into accompanying me into a lingerie store. The embarrased look on his face made my time in Los Angeles more than worth it.  
  
"Why the hell do you need all this stuff?" he asks me presently, as we enter my room, and he sets a bag full of my lingerie on my bed.  
  
"'Need' and 'want' are two different things, Logan," I reply. "And sit down somewhere. You make me nervous by standing up."  
  
He complies, and clears a spot on my bed to sit. "Yeah, but do you even have opportunities to wear all this lacey stuff? You don't date much, and I don't recall you havin' any flings."  
  
"I have been on plenty of dates," I inform him, "and I have had my share of 'flings', as you put it."  
  
He looks at me with a sarcastic expression. "Uh huh. When was the last time you had either one?"  
  
"That is none of your business."  
  
"Before you met me, right?"  
  
I fold my arms, losing patience. "Yes, if it's any of your concern."  
  
"That's been almost a year."  
  
"So?"  
  
"So, you still buy unmentionables like they're either goin' outta style, or you've got a hot weekend fling to look forward to."  
  
"Are you saying the only time I should be allowed to wear anything like that is when I am trying to impress some man?" My patience is indeed wearing thin with him.  
  
"No, but was there a reason you dragged me to that store, other than to embarrass me?"  
  
I look at the floor for a moment. "I apologize, Logan."  
  
"Nah, don't worry about it. It was fun."  
  
"It . . . it was?"  
  
"A little bit, but bein' in an underwear store with you ain't bad. Bein' in there with Summers, now that's askin' for trouble."  
  
I can't help but laugh. Logan can be charming at times. "Well, in that case, we should go shopping more often."  
  
"Yeah, next time we're goin' to the Harley shop, whether you like it or not."  
  
"Especially if I don't like it?" I guess.  
  
"Bingo."  
  
"Fair enough." I pause, studying his features for a moment. "So tell me, was there a reason you asked how long it had been since I had dated?"  
  
He returned my gaze with an annoyed eyebrow. "I told you, I wanted to know you ever used the stuff you bought."  
  
"Was that the only reason?"  
  
"How many reasons do I need?"  
  
I grin at him. Typical Logan. "It merely seemed as if you had . . . an ulterior motive."  
  
This surprises him. "What do you mean, 'ulterior'? You accusing me of something?"   
  
Ouch. That sounded defensive. All right, I won't press further. "Not at all." What was I expecting him to say?  
  
He looks at me for a moment, and shrugs. "Okay, whatever. Listen, 'Ro, I'm going out for a ride. I'll be back later on tonight."  
  
"At, say, two in the morning, when the bar closes?"  
  
"There a problem with that?"  
  
"No...not really. Enjoy your ride."  
  
He nods, and heads for the door. After he leaves, I clear the rest of the items off of the bed, and lie down on it, looking at the ceiling and listening to the retreating rumble of his Harley-Davidson, like a distant thunderstorm.  
  
I get the feeling that I am not going to get much sleep tonight.  
  
_X_  
  
As it turns out, I don't get much sleep for the rest of the week, and I find myself becoming more and more preoccupied. First while I teach my classes, then during X-Men meetings, and now as I sit on the sofa in the rec room, talking with students.  
  
I watch Logan play pool with Rogue, who is becoming more than a match for him in skill, and I realize Jubilation Lee is saying something to me.  
  
"I said, 'you think he's hot, don't you?'," Jubilee replies. This takes me completely by surprise. "I knew it, you do."  
  
"Child, what could have possibly given you that idea?"  
  
She munches a pretzel thoughfully. "Well, for starters, you're barely even listening to me. Instead, you're concentrating on a very specific area of the known universe that scientists refer to as Mister Logan's Butt. You've been zoning out a lot, even when he's not in the room, and finally..." she pauses for effect, taking another bite out of the pretzel, "Bobby here's completely iced up your glass, you haven't even noticed."  
  
I look at the glass in my hand, realizing for the first time that the tea contained inside has frozen solid. My hand is almost as cold. I look up at Bobby, who grins, waves goodbye, and bolts out of the rec room. "Bobby!"  
  
I put the glass down on the coffee table, and warm my hand under my arm. I tell Jubilee, "I have been distracted of late, Jubilee, but it does not have anything to do with Logan, and it is certainly none of your business." Unfortunately, I have never been good at lying.  
  
"Okay, sorry," Jubilee acquiesces. "But are you sure it doesn't have anything to do with Wolverine? I mean, I saw you two comin' in from L.A. the other night, carryin' bags from Victoria's Secret."  
  
We hear a ripping sound, and turn to the pool table. Not only has Logan completely missed the shot he was lining up, but he has also managed to tear the green felt table-top with the tip of his cue stick. Apparently he's been listening to us. "Would you people mind?" he grouses. "I'm trying to play pool here."  
  
I quickly stand up from the sofa, and retreat from the room to escape the laughing teenagers. On my way out, I hear Jubilee's friend Kitty Pryde ask her for results. Jubilee replies, "They got a thing going, just like I said! Didn't I tell ya? Fork over the five bucks, Pryde. You too, Sharra."  
  
I swear I am going to bludgeon that girl one of these days.   
  
_X_  
  
"Cyclops to Beast," Scott says into a commlink to Hank, using his codename. "Report." Scott, Hank, Logan, and myself are on a mission in Brooklyn, following a tip-off from the professor's sources that the Talons had arrived in New York. We are currently scouting a possible hideout. I am with Cyclops on a rooftop, Logan is in an alley on street level, and Beast is investigating the hideout, a run-down tenement building.   
  
"I am currently making my way inside the building," Hank's voice whispers. "I'm in an empty stairwell, with no one in sight. So far, so splendid."  
  
I watch Cyclops' face in profile as he talks. In the field, he wears a specially-made visor which allows him to regulate the amount of energy that pours from his eyes. However, his peripheral vision is somewhat limited as a result, but that is compensated by Scott's natural perception of physical space and the visual spectrum, both of which are far superior to that a normal human. "Keep me informed," Cyclops orders, then communicates with Logan. "Wolverine, are you in position?"  
  
"Yeah," Logan's voice replies, "and luckily I'm upwind of 'em. I can smell 'em, and I can hear 'em shooting the breeze in there."  
  
"You can thank Storm for the wind direction," Cyclops informs Logan, briefly smiling in my direction. "So the targets are in there."  
  
"Roger that."  
  
"Can you hear what they're saying?"  
  
"Not too much," Logan reports after a moment. "Bits and pieces here and there, but not enough to figure out what they're talkin' about." Another pause. "Wait, they just said somethin' strange."  
  
Scott cocks his head to the side. "Specifically?"  
  
"Specifically? They specifically said the word te. It's Japanese for 'hand.' I seem to recall that it's all kinds of bad news."  
  
"How is that unusual?" I ask Logan, wary of his tone of voice.  
  
"Remember that weird chemical scent I picked up in L.A.? The one I couldn't identify? It's here, and I think I know what it is. Tell Beast to haul ass out of that building."   
  
I watch Cyclops' face, as he seems tempted to ask why, but thinks better of it. "Cyclops to Beast: Evacuate now."  
  
"Acknowledged," Hank replies.  
  
"Cyclops to Wolverine," Scott continues. "You want to explain why you just ordered--?"  
  
His words are drowned out in a sudden explosion that levels the building Beast had entered. The entire block echoes, and windows shatter.   
  
"Storm, put out the fire," Cyclops orders, and I comply, convincing the massive storm cloud to unleash a torrent of rain on a specific area. Meanwhile, Cyclops attempts to contact Hank. "Beast! Beast, come in!"  
  
No response, save for static on the line.  
  
"Dammit," Scott curses. "Wolverine, report! That smell wouldn't happen to be C4, would it?"  
  
"Not even close," Logan replies. " The explosives that just went off don't have a smell. You'll have to speak up, Summers; that blast just about deafened me."  
  
"Get Beast out of there." Gunfire commences inside the building.  
  
"We got bigger worries. Seems like the people the Talons were tryin' to get rid of weren't all taken out by the blast. I'll keep in touch. Wolverine out."  
  
Both Scott and I want to question Logan's cryptic statement, but we both know there isn't time. He turns to stare at me with his visor-concealed eyes, which visibly glow. "Storm, get to Beast. I'll see if I can find out what Wolverine's talking about." We both step off of the rooftop ledge, and drop five stories to the street. I summon a gust of wind under us to slow our descent, and we part ways upon landing.  
  
As soon as Cyclops is out of sight, presumably at Logan's location, I see flashes of red light, and sounds of energy discharge. Apparently, Logan was not exaggerating the severity of the situation.   
  
Heading toward the devastated building, I intensify the downpour of rain until the last flame is extinguished, but I temper the rain just enough that it does not flood the structure. I spot a figure bursting through the front door, tumbling down the steps. It's Beast. He's bleeding, and appears on the verge of passing out. Another figure exits the building behind him, this one armed. A Talon. He seems wounded as well, but not above firing upon intruding X-Men.  
  
I feel my eyes glow white as I begin to summon a powerful gust of wind to send him back into the building, but it might not be enough before he pulls the trigger.   
  
Suddenly, Beast springs to his feet, and leaps at the mercenary with the last of his strength. He grabs the awning over the soldier with his hands, and snatches the rifle out of his opponent's hands with his apelike feet. Beast thrusts the gun forward into the Talon's jaw, and sends him flying backward into the building. The awning rips, and Beast falls to the steps in an exhausted heap, gun and all.  
  
"Hank, are you all right?" I ask, rushing to him.  
  
"Ororo," he whispers. "Get . . . get away from here."  
  
"Not without you," I say firmly. "I will get you to safety."  
  
"I'll slow you down."  
  
Before I can reply, a hail of gunfire pelts the street, barely missing us. I look up to locate the source of gunfire, when it stops abruptly. A mercenary drops briefly toward us from an open window, then dangles from it. I can make out a chain wrapped around its neck.  
  
What is going on here?  
  
I hear something strike Hank, and I turn to find an arrow buried deeply in his shoulder. I glimpse something or someone moving into the shadows, but at this time of night, shadows are everywhere. I decide to rectify that, creating flashes of lighting from the storm cloud to illuminate our surroundings.  
  
The lightning reveals no less than three figures, clothed head-to-toe in dark red garb, converging on us. Realizing they have been spotted, they quickly move in for the kill.  
  
Out of nowhere, Logan leaps into our midst, and slashes at the assassins with his claws. Cyclops appears as well, firing beams of optic energy from his visor. Judging by the rips and tears in their uniforms, Scott and Logan have not had an easy battle so far.   
  
One assassin is blasted backward by Cyclops' beam, but the other two skillfully dodge and sidestep Logan's claw slashes. They take turns battering him with punches and kicks. One of them buries a metal blade into Logan's gut, doubling him over. The other assassin raises his sword, and brings it downward onto Logan's neck to behead him.  
  
"Logan!" I hear a voice shout, and realize it is my own.  
  
The blade stops on Logan's neck with a loud clank. Apparently, the assassins are unaware of Logan's metal skeleton. Admittedly, I had forgotten about it as well. Logan knocks the sword away, and impales his attacker with his claws.  
  
That leaves only one, who has retreated behind a car to escape both Wolverine's claws and Cyclops' beams.   
  
He cannot escape me.  
  
I draw upon my remaining energy, and beseech the storm cloud to bring forth a final, massive blade of lightning, which electrifies the car. The assassin had made the mistake of touching the car when ducked behind it, and he becomes electrified as well. He flies backward into the front window of an electronics store, smashing glass and television sets as he lands.  
  
Cyclops and Wolverine walk toward me to check on Beast and myself. "Is he all right?" Scott asks me.  
  
"He is unconscious," I tell him. "He was weak when I found him . . . ."  
  
"That, and it smells like the arrow was tipped with a poison," Logan informs me while pulling out the dagger in his abdomen, and running his hand across the back of his wounded neck. "Blue Boy's not gonna live long."  
  
I look down at the two fallen assassins near us. Oddly, they appear to be little more than clothing, with thick smoke rising from the openings in their garb. The air reeks of burning flesh. "What is happening?" I ask Logan. "Who are they?"  
  
"The Hand," Logan replies, idly studying the metal, three-pronged weapon in his hand as his wounds visibly heal. "They're ninja."  
  
The word is unfamiliar to me, and I start to ask for clarification, when Cyclops and Logan both lock their gazes on something behind me, Cyclops' finger ready to press the firing button on his visor.  
  
I turn around, and catch a fleeting glimpse of another red-garbed figure, before I feel something strike my temple. Then blackness.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED 


	2. Relations

ENIGMATIC, Part 2  
Wyzeguy  
  
I am not sure how long I remain unconscious, but the feeling of cold rough pavement beneath me suggests that it hasn't been long. Amid the pounding of my head, I hear sounds of a struggle nearby, mingled with liberal doses of growling and swearing.   
  
I open my eyes and find Logan with a raven-haired woman pressed face-first against a brick wall. The woman -- a girl in her late teens, upon closer inspection -- struggles against his hold, wearing only a black sports bra and blood-red pants that resemble the outfits worn by the assassins. The top half of the uniform is shredded, and hangs loosely around her hips. She shouts at him and Cyclops in a combination of English and Japanese. Half of the English words are swear words, and I assume the Japanese words are of a similar vein.  
  
"Sorry, kid," Logan growls. "That kind of language ain't helping you at the moment. Now, you wanna cooperate, or--"  
  
The girl reverses Logan's grip in a fluid motion, and somehow manages to spin him around to face us, using him as a human shield. Her fingers clamp around his throat. "One move," she informs us, her voice as icy as her gaze, "and I crush his throat." She could very well do it, as Logan's throat is only protected by cartilage, not adamantium.  
  
Logan's retaliation makes the point moot. He grabs her wrist, pulling it away from his neck, while thrusting an elbow back into her stomach. Her breath leaves her, and Logan presses her against the wall once again, claws at her throat. He growls at her, livid with rage, and Cyclops and I advance toward him in an attempt to intervene before he kills her.  
  
Then he stops, and his furious expression is replaced by shock and disbelief. The girl's expression mirrors his. They seem to recognize each other.  
  
"Are you . . . ?" she whispers, studying his features. Then her face twists into another scowl and she struggles in his grip. "No! You're dead! They said you were dead!"   
  
Logan strengthens his hold on her, and speaks to her in soft, low tones in order to calm her. Cyclops and I can only watch in amazement.   
  
Finally, the girl musters enough strength to free herself and shove him away. Before any of us can stop her, she takes off running, slipping into the shadows and out of sight. Logan watches her go, sadness creeping onto his features.  
  
As Cyclops guards Hank's unconscious form, I slowly walk over to Logan and place a hand on his shoulder. I ask him who the girl was, and if he's all right.  
  
He shrugs off my touch and sneers, suddenly angry. "None of your damn business, Storm. Let's just go." He walks back to Cyclops, and the two carry Beast's heavy body back to the jet.  
  
I watch them for a moment, then I join them as rain begins to pelt the streets. Whether the rainfall is natural or caused by my darkened mood, I cannot tell.  
  
_X_  
  
The jet ride back to the mansion is silent, as none of us are willing to press Logan further about what happened back there. He simply gazes at his gloved knuckles in silence, staring at the holes where his claws emerge. Apparently, this night has unlocked a myriad of secrets to his former life, or at least given him pieces to the puzzle. It seems as though not even he knows how the pieces fit together. Perhaps he is afraid of the very answers he seeks.  
  
Right now I am far too angry with him to care.  
  
_X_  
  
Upon our arrival, Jean and Logan usher Beast to the medilab, putting him under observation and trying to determine how best to fight the poison in his system. Scott makes sure Hank is stable before reporting to the professor's office for a debriefing. Logan heads off to the Danger Room for some time alone to work off his frustration.   
  
Normally, I would seek refuge in the forest or my attic loft among my plants in order to relieve my frustrations. But I find myself walking to the Danger Room anyway, to confront Logan.   
  
This should come as a surprise to many who know me, as I have a well-known hatred of the X-Men's technologically-advanced training center. Scott, Hank, and the professor had created it in the wake of our encounter with Magneto's Brotherhood last year, having realized that Magneto's followers were more skilled at fighting than we. The X-Men's operations had tradionally been what Cyclops termed "black ops", involving shadowy missions in which conflict was avoided and goals were attained while attracting a minimum of attention. The Brotherhood presented a threat level which we were underprepared to handle, so the Danger Room was built to provide us with a more versatile arena for honing our fighting abilities. It is an enormous metallic room located below the lower levels, filled with complicated machinery and controlled by a vast computerized network. With it, we can run sophisticated battle simulations with emphasis placed on unpredictability. In the handful of months since the Danger Room was finished, our fighting and teamwork skills has improved -- and again I'm quoting Cyclops -- "by a wide margin."  
  
The reason I loathe the room is that I am so attuned to nature that technology and confined spaces make me uncomfortable. I can only stand being in the lower levels and the Blackbird for short periods of time in the first place, and the Danger Room pushes my tolerance level to the extreme. I cannot attain the necessary level of calm required for functioning in the lower levels when I am busy fighting for my life against mechanical weaponry and hydraulic arms. In fact, the Danger Room had received its affectionate name when we first tested it. Some obscure glitch caused the system to run at the highest difficulty level, and we barely survived. I was nearly crushed by a large hydraulic battering ram. Its tendency to experience odd malfunctions at inopportune times caused Scott to name it the Danger Room, and the name stuck.  
  
My only satisfaction when using the Danger Room is that I can vent my frustrations on it without worrying too much about destroying it. The room is well-equipped to give and receive heavy punishment. As I enter the Danger Room, I hear that Logan is giving it exactly that.  
  
He growls fiercely as he scrapes his claws across the machinery, the durable adamantium blades leaving deep gashes in the metal. I notice he's only wearing the bottom half of his uniform, in a probable effort to give himself more freedom of movement. I watch him for a while, then he stops and and turns to me, looking apologetic. "Sorry about earlier, 'Ro. Wanna go someplace quiet, where I can explain what's goin' on?"  
  
_X_  
  
After he shuts down the power to the Danger Room, we head outside to the duck pond, where most of our private conversations take place. "You looked as if you recognized that girl," I begin, trying to capture the fuzzy memory of what happened. The blow to the head makes everything vague. "And she certainly seemed to recognize you. Who is she?"  
  
He frowns and looks at me, then looks out at the pond. "Remember the conversation we had a while back while we were sittin' here? The one about whether or not I might have family?"  
  
My eyes widen, and I place a hand on his arm. "Logan? Are you saying . . . ?"  
  
He nods. "Yeah, she's my daughter."  
  
"What is her name?"  
  
"I . . . I think it's Kenna."   
  
I move my hand to his back and say in a soft tone, "you can't remember."  
  
"Not for sure. I think I remember that name. But I know that kid's eyes anywhere. She . . . she has her mother's eyes."  
  
I can see that the recollection of this is tearing him up inside. And there is no reason it shouldn't. "And . . . and her mother . . . ?"  
  
"I don't know. My memories are so fuzzy. All I know is that I have a clear image of Kenna being about three or four. Now she looks like she's about nineteen or twenty. So there's . . . that means I missed fifteen years of her life . . . 'cause I didn't fucking remember her." He's on the verge of tears.  
  
"How do you suppose she became involved in that group?"  
  
"Shit, there's no tellin'. All I know is that I must've had dealings with 'em before I lost my memories. So after I disappeared, they probably recruited her, just to get back at me. And if they get to 'er at a young age, that's not hard t'do."  
  
"I heard her say that . . . she thought you were dead. She was told that."  
  
"She probaly was. Maybe so they could have a strong hold on her. And that's probably what they thought about me at the time, anyway."  
  
"Logan, who are they? What was that word you called her and the other assassins?"  
  
"The Hand."  
  
"No, the other word. 'Ninja', I think. What is that?"  
  
He looks at me now. Genuine surprise colors his face. "You've never heard of a ninja?"  
  
I shake my head, a little annoyed.  
  
"A ninja is an elite form of Japanese warrior. The tradition dates back to Feudal Japan, or somewhere thereabouts. They practice armed- and unarmed combat, mysticism, enlightenment, espionage, and assassination. They can vanish like ghosts. They were the stuff of legend, to the point that historians still argue about whether or not they existed at all. But as you can see . . . ." He shrugs.  
  
"They existed alongside samurai, "Logan continues, "but because they were in a low social class, they didn't have the same restrictions on honor that the samurai had, and could do whatever they needed to do to accomplish a goal. They were hunted by the Japanese government, then put to use as assassins, then hunted again, depending on who was in power at any given time. The ninja were forced into deeper hiding than before, and their numbers dwindled. Very few clans survive to this day, and most in altered form, but I guess The Hand can be counted as survivors."   
  
"And so can your daughter."  
  
"Yeah . . . yeah, so can she. But she hated the sight of me. As far as family reunions go, that one could've went better."  
  
"But I promise we will find her again. Together." I wrap my arms around him and hold him close. He doesn't mind this, and oddly, neither do I.   
  
He looks at me, into my eyes. His breathing has changed. "Wanna go inside where it's warm?"  
  
Now I have difficulty speaking. "Yes, Logan, I . . . I'd like that."  
  
We both stand up, dust off the grass, and venture inside. Before we realize it, we are headed toward his room. He opens the door, and I prepare to go to my own room.  
  
"'Ro . . . " he mutters, one hand caressing my arm. "Wanna keep me company? I mean, if you want . . . ."  
  
I turn back to him, place a hand on his. My head doesn't hurt anymore. And I step forward, meeting his lips with mine. Our arms hold each other tightly as we move into his room he closes the door behind us.  
  
I keep him company this night . . . and do not leave until the following morning.   
  
_X_  
  
Because I am in tune with nature, I am always up with the sun, warmed by the golden radiance like a flower.  
  
Under normal circumstances, anyway. Unless I am in bed with someone to whom I had made love the night before. Then I want to stay in bed until sunset.  
  
The first sensation I am aware of isn't the early sunlight, but a warm hand on my bare shoulder. "Mornin', darlin'," Logan greets, his voice thick with sleep.  
  
My voice is even thicker. "Murrrrph . . ." is as coherent as I can manage. I slowly retreat under the covers and place the pillow over my head to keep out the light and the coldness of morning. It is as if I have a hangover, and yes, I know what that's like. I had one once, the morning following Jean's birthday because she wanted to "get smashed" and swore she wasn't going to be the only one. I am not currently hung over, but with me, sex is close enough.  
  
"Sleep well?" he asks, apparently oblivious to the idea that my conversational skills are nonexistent at this moment.  
  
"Mmmmphuuh. . . ." Translated: 'I want to sleep in.'  
  
He chuckles, and runs a hand down my blanket-covered back. "Looks like I wore ya out."   
  
"Mmmmuh." I recently had thorough intercourse with a man with a heavy alloy skeleton, Logan. What were you expecting?  
  
"Yeah, I know you wanna sleep in, but we got stuff t'do. You got all those plants to water, f'rinstance."  
  
"They'll live . . . " I manage to reply. Let the records show this is the first time I've ever said that about my plants. Usually, watering them is an enjoyment. But that would involve moving my arms and legs, so it is out of the question.  
  
"Fine, whatever." I feel him moving off the bed and doing whatever it is he does in the morning. I stay put, my eyes closed under the blanket. I am surrounded by the strong scent of Logan, in the blanket, bed, and everything else. Smells like oak and cigar smoke, sweat and leather. I can smell my own scent, jasmine and sandalwood.  
  
And of course, I also smell sex. All of those scents are quite pleasant, so I am content to stay here under the covers, and in his room as long as possible.  
  
I find myself both apalled and delighted that we had made love. Apalled because it would seem I took advantage in his moment of weakness and need for comfort. Delighted because the way he moved and reacted indicated that my attraction to him was not one-sided. I do not believe I was just another lay for him. My head starts to throb again.  
  
I hear the water running. He must be washing his face. I am actually dreading our inevitable talk about what happened, because then I might discover that I was indeed just another warm body to him.  
  
And I don't know what this now means for our friendship.  
  
Suddenly I find myself very alert. I can no longer tell where he is by the soft sound of his movements, and by his breathing. I am fairly certain he did not leave the room, but --  
  
"Logan?" I ask as I remove the pillow and blankets from over my head and sit up to look around for him. I find him standing over me with a glass of water. The grinning devil is threatening to pour the water (cold, no doubt) on my head! "Logan! I am up, already!"  
  
He snickers and withdraws the glass, drinking it. "Just makin' sure."  
  
"Bastard."  
  
"Not the first time I've been called that."  
  
I sit up on the bed, arms folded, the blankets covering my lower half. Is he always like this the morning after?  
  
He looks at me with a raised eyebrow. "What?"  
  
"This changes everything, doesn't it?" I had hoped to avoid this, and here I am bringing the very topic up.  
  
"What, you mean . . . you an' me?"  
  
"Yes. Was it a mistake?"  
  
"Not to me. Why? Do you think it is?"  
  
"No . . . I . . ."  
  
"You're havin' doubts."  
  
"Well, no . . . ." Truthfully, I am not sure. I begin looking around the loor next to the bed for my clothes. And I realize I was wearing my uniform. That puts another spin on this, and makes me think of how this affects the team.  
  
_X_  
  
Later, after we shower, dress, and kiss each other, we report to a meeting in the lower levels. We realize we missed breakfast, and our teammates make note of this. Logan and I try to carry on as if nothing is going on between us, but the others don't look convinced.  
  
Logan tells the group what he'd informed me of the ninja, then pauses, shooting a glance at Cyclops. "And before you ask how I know this, I couldn't tell you where I learned it. I just know it, for the same reason I recognize the Hand in the first place. For some stupid reason I don't recall many details other than a history lesson, and the smell of the chemical they use."  
  
Scott just smiles silently, storing this information away for future reference.  
  
"I saw their bodies dissolving," I mention. "Does that have anything to do with the chemical?"  
  
"Yeah. Their uniforms are laced with it, and if they're defeated and can't escape, they press a hidden button, and the chemical is released into their bloodstreams. Poof, instant human spontaneous combustion. That way, they don't live long enough to be interrogated, and they don't leave behind bodies for autopsies."  
  
Morbidly clever. "Is that why her uniform was shredded from the waist up?"  
  
"Yeah. I had to get the top half off her before she could press the button. Her uniform has to be reasonably intact in order for it to work."  
  
"How do the Talons fit into this?" Scott asks.  
  
"Beats the hell outta me. Could be any number of reasons. One group could have been hired to kill the other, they could be working for the same boss, they could have double-crossed each other, it could be an honor thing . . . your guess is as good as mine."  
  
"But you said The Hand did not have honor," I remind him.  
  
"Not to anybody but themselves, really."  
  
"It's gang mentality at work," Cyclops observes, crossing his arms. "You mess with one member of a clan, they all take it as an insult."  
  
"Pretty much," says Logan.  
  
"I've been doing some research on ninja since last night, especially on their organizational structure," Cyclops continues. Leave it to him to approach this from a strategic point of view. "There are three ranks of ninja: genin, chunin, and jonin. The genin -- like the ones we met last night -- are the 'low men', the field agents. They're the ones who carry out all the grunt work. The chunin are the 'middle men', the genin's superior officers. They organize the strategy and who does what. The genin report to them. But the chunin report to the jonin, the 'high man'. The jonin's the head guy, the commanding officer of each ryu, each clan. He has the most idea of what's going on, and he holds it all together." All of that must have taken a while to uncover, which suggests he was up later than the rest of us. The dark creases visible under his glasses confirm that.  
  
Logan smiles slightly. "Not bad, Summers."  
  
The rest of us ponder this with realization dawning. "So in ninja terms," Jean offers, "we're genin, and the professor's the jonin."  
  
"Well, Cyclops is a little bit like a chunin too," Logan replies, "but yeah, that's the general idea."  
  
I look over to Xavier. "So as jonin," I ask, "what are your orders?"  
  
Xavier gives a warm smile and subtly sits up a little straighter in his wheelchair. He seems rather complimented by that. Then he turns serious. "Logan's daughter is still out there, and we must find her, Hand or not. From what I can gather from all this, it would appear that her continued survival is now a dishonor to her clan, because she did not complete her objective."  
  
"Wait," Jean says, confused. "I thought they accomplished their mission when they blew up the Talons."  
  
"Not quite," Logan tells her. "Cyke and I caught a glimpse of one Talon escaping. No telling where he is now. That, and I was a Talon. So that makes two Talons still alive, and the Hand's list of enemies just grew to include the X-Men."  
  
"It's a safe bet, then," Scott guesses, "that the girl will want to track down that last Talon to restore her lost honor. Either that, or she'll be hiding from the Hand."  
  
Logan stares into Scott's glasses. "If she's any daughter of mine, she won't be hidin'."  
  
"Then we must find both the hunters and the quarry," Xavier asserts.  
  
_X_   
  
Since this is the weekend, there are no classes to teach. Of this I am thankful. It gives me a chance to catch up on my morning chores, which consists of watering the plants in my loft and in the gardens around the estate. I do not trust the groundskeeper with this task, as gardening is one of the few true joys I have in this life.  
  
The watering done, I lean against the wall in the lower levels, outside the war room. Logan and Scott are at the holographic table, mapping out the entirety of New York City, pooling their knowledge to locate both Logan's daughter and his former Talon teammate. The two men argue and bicker quite frequently, but not as much as they once did. I note the strong respect they have for each other that is evident in their voices and mannerisms toward each other. Once they rivaled over Jean's affections -- though it was clear that Logan was less serious about her than Scott was -- but now they rival over everything, and happily so. They're both possessed of strong wills and iron opinions, which makes their conversations fascinating to watch and listen to.  
  
"Is it true?" Marie's voice asks, startling me. I stand up straight and look at her, and she elaborates. "I mean, is it true that Logan has a daughter?"  
  
"Yes, we believe so," I tell her gently. "She was part of a group of assassins we encountered last--"  
  
"She tried to kill you. An' Logan too." One thing about her is that she always gets to the point.  
  
"I . . . yes. She did. She wasn't expecting to meet him. Or any of us, really. But especially not Logan."  
  
"How'd she end up with a bunch of hired killers? And ninjas, to boot.?"  
  
"I . . . I don't know, child. You will have to ask Logan. But then, I am certain that not even he knows."  
  
"How old was she?"  
  
I consider this for a moment. "She appeared to be your age."  
  
"An' I bet she'd been in that gang for a while. They must recruit early."  
  
"That's what Logan told me."  
  
She studies me for a few moments with those large wise eyes. "So you an' Logan . . . are you two a . . .?"  
  
I had been dreading this. "An item? Yes, I suppose so. Has it been that obvious?"  
  
She grins unexpectedly. "It was to anyone on that end o' the mansion, gal."   
  
Her comment incites the deep blush from me for which I am certain she was fishing. "I suppose we'll have to get that door soundproofed." More seriously, I add, "Are you going to be okay with this? I know that--"  
  
"That I had a crush on 'im a year ago? Or that he an' I are like family? 'Ro, I have his personality in my head. I also have Erik's and David's. That gets a little bit weird sometimes. But it means I don't look at Logan the same way most people do. I'm him some days. I know more 'bout what goes on in his head than anybody has a right to. That kinds kills romantic aspirations, don'tcha think?"  
  
I never looked at it that way. "So carrying his personality traits around in your head means you've had more of him than you can stand."  
  
"Somedays, yeah. I know he ain't really my type; that much I figured out. An' he acts toward me like a big overprotective papa, so if you're worried that'll mean you'll end up bein' like a momma to me . . . ."  
  
"I can relax on that front?"  
  
"Actually, you already are t'me. Well, maybe a big sister or an aunt. Yeah, I like that. You're Aunt 'Ro."  
  
I can't help but smile at that. "Thank you, child. Now I feel old."  
  
"Not as old as I feel on the days Magneto decides t'take over my head. Wanna know how funny it can be to wake up in the mornin', look in the mirror and expect to see a tall 70-year-old man when you're a short 17-year-old girl?"  
  
"Or a gruffly handsome man of indeterminate age?"  
  
"Bein' a 17-year-old boy is worse, believe me."  
  
We start laughing so hard we slide into a sitting position on the cold corridor floor, and Logan and Scott peek out of the room to determine whether or not we've lost our minds.  
  
The bewildered looks on their faces just make us laugh even harder.  
  
_X_   
  
It actually did not take long to locate Logan's old teammate, Smartass Wilson. Logan's fuming about that as we drive through the city: "out of all the Talons who could have survived, why did it have to be him?"   
  
"You didn't like him?" I ask with a slight smile.  
  
He frowns and shakes his head slowly. "I hated his jokes. He was a freakin' nutcase. Stop grinning."  
  
"I'm not." But I am. Especially when she says that. "I'm sorry about the Talons. It must be sad to lose so many of them, when they must have been your friends."  
  
"Friends? I don't even really remember 'em. And I'm not exactly fond of all this past history comin' up. If that's what my former life amounted to, I'd just as soon my past stayed buried."  
  
I place my hand on his and gently trace my fingers across it. It's funny how casual this relationship has become in its short existence. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours.  
  
He glances at my hand, then returns his gaze to the road. Suddenly he seems distant. Almost cold.  
  
Before I can really respond to that, we reach our destination. Logan pulls up in a parking lot where a tall African-American male in a trench coat and sunglasses waits. He is our contact.  
  
We exit the car, mutually deciding to put our conversation on hold. "Logan," I tell him, gesturing to our contact, "this is--"  
  
"Detective Lucas Bishop, NYPD," Bishop interrupts, studying Logan. "So you're Logan." He doesn't seem impressed."  
  
Logan seems equally indifferent to Bishop. "You figured that out from, what? 'Ro here callin' me 'Logan'? You really are a detective."  
  
"Logan . . . ." I use my best 'be nice' voice. Then, to Bishop: "I told you about him. He's our new member."  
  
This raises Logan's eyebrows. "Wait . . . he knows about the--?"  
  
"Yes. He is our informant within the police department. He is a mutant himself, but has found it wiser to remain in law enforcement."  
  
"Ah, great." He studies Bishop closer. "What's your power? Bein' able to see at night with shades on?"  
  
"What's yours," Bishop retorts without missing a beat, "not knowing what a comb and shaver are for?"  
  
This is ridiculous. "Boys," I say to them with a sharp enough tone to get their attention. "You two can thump your chests later. As it is, we're here for a reason. You said you had a lead on Wilson's whereabouts, Lucas?"  
  
Bishop nods, his businesslike calm having stayed intact the entire time. I am almost certain there is no other side to his personality. "Wade Wilson is holed up in the low-rent district not far from here. He uses this place as an occasional safe-house when he's lying low from the police--"  
  
"And anyone else who might want him dead," Logan adds coolly.  
  
"Yes. Now the reason I wanted to meet with you here, Ororo, is that when you find him, I want to arrest him myself."  
  
"Understood," I reply.  
  
"What d'you want him for?" Logan asks, suspicious.  
  
"The murder of Maria Calasantos," Bishop replies, as if he's just been asked the most obvious question imaginable. "The upper brass might not care too much about mutants being killed, but the string of murders the Talons have been committing happens to be a pet project of mine. I've been keeping track."  
  
Logan narrows his eyes a bit, as if he has a theory. "Your superiors don't know you're a mutant, do they?"  
  
"The chief does, and I try to stay on his good side." He doesn't elaborate, but he's told me previously that his chief is afraid of mutants, but even more afraid of the controversy that would surround the descriminant firing of one. However, since Lucas is one of the better officers on the force, he is useful as long as he doesn't reveal his powers. Even so, he is often called to handle mutant-related situations.  
  
"Now, we're wasting time," Bishop declares, turning toward a rundown apartment housing complex. "I'm not even sure Wilson is home right now, but there's no guarantee he'll stay there if he is." He leads us to the building quietly, and the three of us are wary of our surroundings. Logan and I are particularly nervous about the dangers the shadows conceal.  
  
Suddenly, we hear shouts and sounds of a struggle on the rooftop. Looking up, we glimpse a handful of shadowy figures fighting and flashes of metal weapons. Or more accurately, four or five ninja fighting a woman in their midst. It's Kenna.   
  
This doesn't please Logan at all. "Shit. She came here to finish off Wilson, but the other genin got to her first." He unsheathes his claws, Bishop pulls his pistol, and we quickly run toward the building.  
  
Kenna doesn't seem to be doing too badly, as she fends off attacks from the other ninja with her own sword. She fights with a ferocity all-too-similar to her father's. However, the number of her opponents forces her closer and closer to the roof ledge, and a well-timed slice to her side causes Kenna to lose her balance. Rather than fight to regain her balance and remain on the roof, she hops off and lands on a fire escape, moving down it to the window leading into Wilson's apartment.  
  
As soon as she peeks in the window, bullets rip through the glass, causing Kenna to recoil to avoid getting hit. The ninja descend down the fire escape to reach her, and Kenna swiftly slices open the nearest one. In a novel move, she grabs the wounded assassin and uses him as a shield against the bullets while fending off the next ninja. At least on the metal stairs she can deal with them one by one.  
  
Then I notice Logan is gone. He must have slipped inside during the confusion.  
  
Bishop hasn't noticed, as he's aiming his gun at the scuffle on the fire escape, trying to decide who to hit. He finally decides to point his gun straight up and fire a warning shot. All that does is cause the Hand to send throwing weapons at us. We retreat behind a dumpster for cover.  
  
"Where's Logan?" Bishop inquires, finally noticing his departure. "I knew I should've brought a bigger gun." He peeks out and fires a few shots.  
  
The ninja surround Kenna on the fire escape. The genin she used as a window barrier is dissolving into a mist, leaving her once again vulnerable to gunfire. Except the shooting has stopped. Logan must have reached Wade.  
  
I decide that hiding will not help the situation, so I summon a tightly-focused gale wind and direct it toward the Hand. They are blown off of the staircase, leaving only Kenna who is barely hanging on. I then race to the front door of the apartment and see if I can reach Logan. I notice he has gutted the door lock with his claws. I'm fairly certain I guessed the room he was in accurately. Three floors up. Room facing the alley.  
  
I sprint up the stairs quickly and find the room. The door is closed, but it bursts open as soon as I near it. A human shape flies out of it and hits the wall as hard as possible without crashing through it. It's Logan, leather and denim ripped from the losing end of a battle.  
  
I rush to his side quickly, and check to see if he's conscious. He is, but just barely. His eyes focus on me. "'Ro . . . get outta here. It's Kirigi."  
  
That last mumbled word sounds so foreign I'm not sure I heard him correctly. But instead of asking for clarification, I turn to the doorway and see a seven-foot ninja carrying an impossibly long, blood-stained sword. His uniform is different from the other ninja, so I'm not sure he is even from the same clan. Beyond him, Kenna and the other ninja watch him from the window. Their gazes are that of fear and awe. On the floor next to the window is a bleeding man whom I assume is Wilson.  
  
Logan rises shakily to his feet, growling at the ninja. Kirigi remains eerily silent, almost lifeless. Logan leaps at him, claws extended, but the tall ninja simply sidesteps and thrusts his hand at Logan's throat. Lifting Logan up by the neck, he then prepares to impale Logan with his sword.  
  
TO BE CONCLUDED 


End file.
